


too much green to feel blue

by epilogues



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Light Angst, M/M, Magic, True Love's Kiss, frog prince - Freeform, uhhhh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2020-02-09 08:38:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18634642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epilogues/pseuds/epilogues
Summary: Once upon a time is a pretty presumptuous phrase, because it implies that the events following have only happened one time in all of history.aka a Frog Prince AU





	too much green to feel blue

**Author's Note:**

> this is... wildly different from my usual writing so here you go, I guess? I hope you enjoy! :)

Once upon a time is a pretty presumptuous phrase, because it implies that the events following have only happened one time in all of history. Usually, of course, that’s not the case. But there are some times where the universe tries something new, where it picks through old stories and flights of fancy and decides that what two people need is truly unique. It tries something that’s only been imagined before - desperate times, desperate measures, desperate words from desperate people heard at a time when the universe is bored, and suddenly there is something new.

Once upon a time, there is a man sitting on a couch. He’s tired, and his head is swimming with memories. It always is, these days. He remembers an old promise that was made, that he’d never have to be alone, and he thinks of the sad truth that there is quite possibly nothing he can do to heal something broken.

The man stretches, knocks one CD off a stack of many. They’re all unopened, and their blue and yellow covers blur together into some sort of green that might just stand for something. The man doesn’t bother retrieving the fallen CD. He stays on the couch, and he falls asleep, and there’s an ache in his chest building with every moment he’s left unnoticed.

Once upon a time, there is a man sleeping in a bed. He’s tired, and his dreams are swimming with memories. They always are, these days. The man remembers an old promise that was made, that he’d never leave another alone, and he thinks of the sad truth that there is quite possibly nothing he can to do to fix something he broke.

Once upon a time, closed windows slide open and something slips inside and the universe tries something new.

*

Patrick is pulled out of a weird dream about wells and gold and castles by the sound of a picture frame falling off of his dresser. He stumbles out of bed, wincing at the way his head is still pounding from post-tour jetlag, and picks the picture up with a sigh. There’s a cool breeze in his room, which is weird, because he’s pretty certain he didn’t open any windows last night.

But sure enough, he turns to find that his bedroom window is open, the sounds of Chicago softly filtering into his apartment, and _there’s a frog on his windowsill?_ Patrick doesn’t scream, necessarily, but the sound that leaves his mouth is probably not good for his vocal cords regardless.

The problem isn’t the frog itself. Frogs are fine. The problem is that the frog is, technically, inside of Patrick’s apartment. Frogs are not supposed to be inside of fourth-floor apartments, as a general rule. Patrick’s more than a little confused about how it got inside/possibly opened a locked window, but it’s seven am and he really doesn’t have the energy to figure it out. So, he gingerly reaches out to push the frog back just enough to close the window, but as soon as Patrick’s fingertips touch the frog, it jumps - directly onto Patrick’s head.

This time, he definitely screams. Patrick swats at his hair until the frog takes a hint and hops to the dresser, then to the floor, then under the dresser.

“What the _hell_ ,” Patrick mutters to himself. He’s nowhere near awake enough for this shit. He’s not about to just let a frog stay under his dresser indefinitely, though, so he goes into the kitchen and grabs a small cup.

The frog is on Patrick’s bed when he gets back, which is gross but at least makes the frog accessible. Patrick scoops it up with the cup quickly and places his hand over the top to keep it in as he starts carrying it out of the apartment and downstairs.

Yeah, Patrick’s definitely not awake enough for this shit. He passes one of his neighbors and responds, “Frog,” to her question of, “Hi, how are you?” and he nearly trips over the doorstep as he walks outside. It’s just that kind of morning, apparently.

Patrick crouches down next to the tiny patch of grass between his apartment complex and the next and sets the cup down. “Okay, little dude, time to get going.”

The frog hops from one side of the cup to the other, but it doesn’t make any move to escape.

Patrick sighs and tips the cup over on its side. “C’mon, okay, I just want to go back to sleep.”

The frog hops forward but stops just shy of the grass. It looks directly at Patrick and croaks softly, and it looks almost … afraid?

No, that’s bullshit. The frog can’t look afraid, because, hello, it’s a frog.

Patrick sighs again, deeper this time, as another one of his neighbors passes by and gives him a strange look. “Okay, you know what, just -“ He picks the cup up so that the frog falls out onto the grass, feeling only a little guilty when it has to take a second to get its bearings.

Once it does, though, the frog doesn’t hop away like Patrick had expected. It just keeps staring, eyes wide, and Jesus, it really does look terrified.

“Go on,” Patrick says, “what are you scared of?”

The frog croaks and jumps towards Patrick, sounding almost panicked. Patrick sighs and resists the urge to roll his eyes at himself. He sounds fucking ridiculous. He’s not only talking to a frog at eight in the morning, but now he’s worried that the frog is scared. Jesus Christ.

“Bye, frog,” Patrick says, forcing himself to just turn and walk away. The frog ribbits a few more times before falling silent, and Patrick pretty much forgets the incident for the rest  
of the day.  
*

If the universe could rub its temples in exasperation, it would - it looks like this might take a bit more effort than originally planned.

*

That night, Patrick dreams about falling down a wishing well. He lands on a bed of glittering gold coins and immediately starts to sink down into it, and he grabs at the air but there’s no rope, no bucket. His head has just slipped under the gold when he wakes up.

Patrick is sweating, and his heart is pounding in perfect time with the loud chorus of frogs outside of his window. That’s kinda weird - there aren’t really a lot of frogs around here, and it’s fall besides. Frogs singing just sounds like summer nights in the van, like watching Pete in the dark and trying to convince himself he was fine with just friendship, like … Patrick sighs. No sense in reminiscing right now, especially because it’s three am.

He forces himself to calm down, brushing away the weird imagery of the dream and his memories, and falls asleep.

Patrick wakes the next morning to his phone ringing. He fumbles across his nightstand until he grabs it and hits the button to answer. “H’lo?”

“Patrick?”

Patrick bites back a groan. The voice of his manager has not only woken him up instantly, but set all of Patrick’s “something has gone terribly wrong with the album” sensors off. “Who else? What is it?”

“So, you remember that interview that you have scheduled for today?”

Well - Patrick remembers _now_ , at least. “Uh… yeah,” he says, hoping it sounds convincing. “Just remind me of the time and place?”

His manager sighs, and Patrick’s willing to bet that she’s pinching the bridge of her nose. “Look, don’t worry about it, I’m calling to tell you that it’s canceled.”

“Oh, good,” Patrick says. “Why didn’t you just text me, though?”

She sighs again. “Because, Patrick, they canceled because they don’t think you’re really, ah, relevant right now. We’re going to have to do some serious work to keep your name on people’s lips, and -“

“Julia, I just got off of tour two days ago. You know I care more than anything about this album, and you know I’m there to do whatever I need to do for it, but is it really going to fucking matter if I take just one week off to breathe?”

“One week,” she says, after a scarily long pause. “But then be ready to work your ass off, got it?”

“Yep,” Patrick says, already hitting the button to end the call before he pops the ‘p.’ He wasn’t trying to be rude, Julia is a damn good manager, and he does really want to work for the album, it’s just … he’s fucking exhausted. And now, apparently, all of the work he put in on tour wasn’t worth enough to get him one shitty, mid-afternoon radio interview. Fucking _great_.

He repeats it out loud, “Fucking great,” just to really get the point across, but he’s interrupted by a loud ribbit! from the window. Patrick whips his head in the direction of the sound immediately, and yep, there’s a frog on his windowsill again.

“What the fuck?”

The frog repeats its ribbit, like that’s any sort of answer, and hops onto the dresser, then the nightstand, then the bed. It stares at Patrick, and honestly, Patrick doesn’t have the energy to do much but stare back.

“Are you… you’re the same frog from yesterday, aren’t you? What the hell are you doing? How the hell are you doing this?”

_Ribbit._

Patrick blows out a sigh that even Julia would be impressed by and closes his eyes. No wonder people think he’s irrelevant without Fall Out Boy - one solo tour and he’s already sitting in his bed talking to frogs. Fuck.

Patrick starts to get out of bed to grab a cup to catch the frog, but he’s interrupted by the sound of his phone ringing again. A glance at the screen reveals that it’s Gabe Saporta. Gabe usually only calls when a) he has something really important to say, or b) he’s drunk and _thinks_ he has something really important to say. Patrick hits the answer button and prays for the former.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Patrick, sorry to bother you, I know you just got off tour.” Gabe sounds… worried, almost, which isn’t really like him.

“It’s okay,” Patrick says slowly. “Is something wrong?”

Gabe hums, a short, noncommittal note. “Well, probably not, but … I don’t know. This is probably nothing, and I know you’re not the best person to ask right now, but I wasn’t really sure who else to go to, and - “

Okay, at this point, Patrick is willing to bet at least $50 this is about Pete. He’s also going to be using his $50 winnings to hire a frog catcher, apparently, because the tiny green animal has disappeared from on top of the bed to under it. _Wonderful._ “What’s going on?”

“This is gonna sound stupid, but I’m just - I’m worried, dude. I haven’t heard from Pete in two days, which isn’t really anything, I know, but he and I kind of have this policy? Like, we always call or text back within one day, just to be sure. It’s really not like him to just drop off the radar like this, and apparently, no one’s heard from him since two nights ago. So I guess I just wanted to call and see if you knew anything…?”

“Shit, Gabe, I’m sorry. But I haven’t heard anything from Pete in, well, months, honestly, and right now, I kind of don’t really care where he is.”

Gabe sounds disappointed when he speaks again. “Yeah, that’s… that’s understandable. Well, thanks, Patrick. Sorry again to bother you.”

“It’s fine,” Patrick sighs, and then, because despite all of the frustration that caused the hiatus, Pete was his best friend (and Patrick’s been kinda sorta maybe definitely in love with him for years), he adds, “Let me know if you hear anything, though.”

“Will do,” Gabe replies. “Bye.” He hangs up almost immediately, leaving Patrick with a new, undeniable worry in his chest and a frog under his bed.

Patrick decides to deal with the latter first. He grabs the same cup from yesterday from the kitchen counter and brings it back into his room, crouching down so he can see under the bed to where the frog is still just staring at him.

“C’mere,” Patrick says, feeling immensely stupid but too tired to really care. “C’mon, little dude, you can’t just hang out in my room.”

The frog croaks in response.

“Please?”

The frog hops towards Patrick but then jumps back almost immediately. Patrick sighs just as his phone starts to ring again. Through an amazing feat of self control, Patrick places the cup on the floor without slamming it and grabs his phone off the top of his bed.

“Hello?”  
This time it’s Ashlee’s voice on the other end of the line. “Patrick?” she says. “Hey, I’m sorry, but -”

“No, I haven’t heard from Pete,” Patrick interrupts. He feels bad for cutting her off, but he’s also sick of answering his goddamn phone and being awake and trying to catch frogs. “Sorry.”

She huffs, but the annoyance doesn’t sound directed at him. “It’s fine, it’s just - he was supposed to pick Bronx up for the weekend today, and - sorry, you don’t need to hear all this. I just thought he might’ve gone to your place after he dropped off the map, because, you know. It’s you two. In fact, I almost thought - “

Ashlee cuts herself off with a disdainful laugh, but Patrick can’t help but be _very_ curious about where that sentence, the farewells he was already planning dying in his throat. “You almost thought what?”

“Well, you know, that he’d stopped pretending he wasn’t in love with you and finally went to talk to you, but I guess not.”

There’s an alarmingly loud thump from under the bed where the frog is still hiding, but Patrick doesn’t even hear it over the wave of static that washes over his head. Ashlee’s words make sense individually, but the minute Patrick tries to put them together, he can’t begin to figure out what the big picture here. “He’s- uh, in love with me?”

 Ashlee laughs in that disdainful way again, still not sounding like she’s directing her feelings at Patrick. “I honestly don’t know, but oh my gosh, I really shouldn’t be talking to you about this, should I? Look, sorry for bothering you, Patrick. I’ve got to go change my plans for the weekend, but, uh, let me know if you hear from Pete, okay? I’m worried about him.”

“Yeah, yeah, will do. Hopefully he’ll be back soon,” Patrick says, impressing himself with the fact that he was actually able to string together a coherent response, and then he hangs up and slumps back onto the floor. Well. That was…. that was certainly not a conversation he’d expected to have today.

The worry that Gabe’s call started in Patrick’s chest is larger now, because it’s really not like Pete to not show up when someone, especially Bronx, needs him. But more noticeably, a strange mixture of hopedreadshock is taking over Patrick’s entire body, because…..

_Pete might be in love with me?_

He knows, logically, that Ashlee is in no way unbiased when it comes to anything about Pete, and he knows that she’s stressed right now and probably isn’t thinking the most clearly, but _what if?_

This is all too much. Patrick forces himself to take a few deep breaths before he actually starts hyperventilating, then resolves to take care of the last remaining thing in his life that he has some semblance of control over - the goddamn frog under his goddamn bed.

He drops back down to peer under the bed, where the frog is still sitting. It hops all the way back to the opposite wall when it sees Patrick.

“Hey, buddy,” Patrick says, trying for a welcoming tone as he picks the cup up again.

The frog doesn’t even croak in response this time. Instead, it starts moving slowly along the back wall, seemingly trying to get as far away from Patrick as possible.

“I’m not gonna hurt you, I’m just gonna take you outside,” Patrick explains. Does he feel like an absolute idiot in this moment? Definitely. But then again, is he going to flip his shit on, like, eight different levels if he doesn’t focus on this one, should-probably-be-way-easier-than-it’s-turning-out-to-be task.

This time, the frog does give him a _ribbit_ , and it almost sounds like it’s protesting Patrick’s words. The same look of terror on its face from the day before has returned.

Patrick pauses, because okay, there’s no way that this frog is understanding what he’s saying, but - “Do you not want to go outside?”

 

The frog gives an emphatic _ribbit!_ and hops a tiny bit closer to Patrick.

“Oh my god,” Patrick says. “I - can you understand me?”

The frog repeats the same croak as before. It pauses for a moment, like it’s deciding where to go, but then it takes another small hop towards Patrick.

“Oh my _god,_ ” Patrick repeats. His best friend/crush might secretly be in love with him, said best friend/crush has disappeared, and now he’s talking with a frog. Jesus fucking Christ. This might actually be the weirdest point of his entire life. Is this the kind of thing that makes people realize it’s time for a mid-life crisis?

During Patrick’s mini-freakout, the frog hops slowly closer, until it brings Patrick’s attention back to reality by lightly tapping on his hand.

“Yes?” Patrick says, because at this point, _what can you fucking do?_

The frog croaks and hops onto Patrick’s leg.

“Okay, nope, absolutely not,” Patrick says, quickly standing up and brushing it off. “I don’t care if you’re a magical, English-understanding frog, you’re not running loose around my apartment. I’m going to put you… uh, probably in some Tupperware, and I’m going to get some sleep, and then if by some crazy chance I wake up and this hasn’t been a dream, we’ll deal with it then.”

*  
If the universe could smile, it would. Or at least it would breathe a sigh of relief, because hey, now things are getting somewhere.  
*

When Patrick wakes up three hours later, there’s still the sound of a frog pushing Tupperware along the counter in the kitchen, his phone history still shows calls from his manager, Gabe, and Ashlee, and he’s still pretty sure he’s about to officially start his mid-life crisis, so this definitely isn’t a dream. _Shit._

He walks into the kitchen and retrieves the Tupperware container that the frog has been sitting in (with holes hastily poked in the lid, of course, and carries it to the bathroom. “I was thinking before I fell asleep,” he says, “and I figured you’d prefer having more room to run around, so I’m just going to put you in the bathtub.”

The frog doesn’t seem to have anything to say that, but it jumps around energetically once Patrick places it in the tub. It almost looks like it’s searching for something, but it apparently comes up empty. The frog turns back to where Patrick is sitting perched on the edge of the tub and croaks once.

“You know, now that I’m running on more than two hours of sleep, it feels a lot less likely that you can actually understand me,” Patrick says with a sigh.

The frog’s croak sounds almost like it’s protesting.

Patrick looks at it for a long moment. “Ribbit twice if you can understand me?” he says hesitantly.

The sound of two happy, triumphant _ribbits_ echoes through the room, and Patrick nearly falls into the tub.

Once Patrick has righted himself, he takes several deep breaths before speaking again. “How - nevermind, I don’t even know how you’d answer that, I - fuck. What the actual fuck is going on?”

 

The frog’s reply is cut off when Patrick sighs again.

“Don’t bother, I just… I’m talking to a frog. I thought I could handle not being in my band and I thought I could get over Pete now that I’m not around him every day, but apparently, I’ve just lost it,” Patrick says. “Fuck. And now I’m telling you, a literal frog, my problems. Jesus Christ.”

Patrick scrubs a hand over his face and finally looks back down at the frog, who is going fucking nuts. It’s hopping in circles around the tub and croaking loudly.

“You okay, dude?”

The frog stops, looks up at Patrick, and _ribbits_ softly.

Patrick chalks the way the noise sounds like “‘Trick” up to the fact that he’s probably going insane.  
*  
The universe reminds itself that patience is a virtue.  
*  
Three long days pass in a similar fashion - voicemails from Gabe, Ashlee, and even Brendon start piling in around eight am and continue all day. Patrick answers each one dutifully, “No, I haven’t heard anything,” with the pit in his stomach growing more each time. After the morning calls, Patrick stops by the bathroom to offer the frog food. He managed to catch a few flies outside on the first day, but the frog had refused them - and everything else except for Cheeto Puffs and Doritos.

On the fourth day, Patrick dumps the rest of the Cheeto bag into the tub, wincing slightly when he sees the dust that’s probably going to stain his tub. Oh, well.

The frog hops once, repeating its new favorite noise (a ribbit that Patrick still swears sounds like “Trick”), and starts eating the Cheetos.

“I really don’t think that stuff is good for you,” Patrick remarks. “I hope I’m not, like, poisoning you.”

The frog ignores him.

“Anyway, I have to go to the store today. And I guess I’ll go by the pet store and start figuring out how to actually take care of you, because I guess you’re staying now?”

The frog croaks twice, which Patrick interprets as the sign for yes that they’ve been using. (Even though frogs can’t fucking understand English so it’s probably all just a coincidence. Probably.)

“Okay, cool, cool, this is fine.”

Patrick stands up from where he was sitting on the edge of the tub, and sighs as his phone starts ringing _again._

He answers without looking at the caller id and says, “No, I haven’t seen him, I’ll-“

“No, I know,” Gabe interrupts. “But I just wanted to tell you - I finally got some people to go and check his house today, you know, professionals, and they said it doesn’t look like anything bad happened. We’re, uh, we’re trying to keep it quiet, obviously, but he’s officially listed as missing now.”

“Shit,” Patrick says, the exasperation he’d answered the phone giving way to a heavy worry. “God, I just hope he’s okay.”

“Yeah,” Gabe says, “hey, I don’t wanna keep you, but I just - I figured you should know. And I’ll call you back if I hear anything.”

“Same, yeah,” Patrick answers, and then he hangs up and looks back at the frog. It’s hopping around, clearly agitated by something, and emitting a steady stream of ribbits. “You good, little dude?”

The frog croaks once, which either means “no” or absolutely nothing because it’s a goddamn frog.

Patrick watches it for another minute or so, until it stops jumping around and just stares at him. “Okay, buddy, I’m going to go to the store and get Cheetos and … frog supplies, I guess? Please stay in the tub?”

The frog ribbits twice, but Patrick closes the bathroom door on the way out just in case.

His excursion is fairly uneventful - he’s able to get Cheetos (and some actual food, of course) without being recognized by anyone, and the teenage employee at the pet store actually knows things about frogs and how to keep them as pets. Patrick returns home with a frog tank, frog “food,” and a growing curiosity about just what it is exactly that he’s doing with his life right now.

*  
Certainly not once upon a time, a guitar pick falls from a desk and disappears into a dark corner. The universe gives one last nudge.  
*  
“Want another Cheeto?”

The frog ribbits, bumping its head against the glass of the small tank.

Patrick goes to drop another Cheeto in, but when he reaches down into the tank, the frog _jumps onto his hand._

“Dude! Get off,” Patrick exclaims. He shakes his hand in an unsuccessful attempt to dislodge the frog and definitely doesn’t think about how he has almost certainly said those exact words to Pete before, how he might never say them to Pete again because Pete is fucking missing and the only thing really keeping Patrick together is the distraction of this frog. Yeah, he definitely doesn’t think about that.

Meanwhile, the frog stubbornly refuses to get off of Patrick’s hand. It croaks a couple of times before moving up to his wrist, then his arm, and then onto the floor below Patrick’s desk.

“Fuck, dude, can we not do this right now?”

The frog doesn’t move from under Patrick’s desk.

Patrick rubs his temples and drops backwards onto his bed. “Seriously? I literally got you that tank _today_.”

The only response he gets is a soft scuffling noise, which does nothing to help the situation.

“Can you please just come out from under there?”

The frog listens this time, which is surprising. It hops out from under the bed with something bright and shiny in its mouth, then makes a careful path up onto Patrick’s thigh.

“Wh - okay, hi, whatcha got there?”

Patrick sits up on his elbows and watches the frog deposit one of his golden guitar picks onto his jeans.

“Oh, hey, thanks,” he says genuinely. “I hadn’t realized I’d lost this, I…” Patrick’s voice trails off. The frog fills the silence with another one of those ribbits that sounds like “Trick,” and Patrick remembers a story that his mother used to read him every night before bed.

There had been a frog, and a princess, and a golden ball that went missing, and in a way, this is all starting to feel just a little too familiar as his dream about wells and castles returns to him along with his conversation with Ashlee.

Patrick sits up all the way and eyes the frog still sitting on his leg. “You’re not secretly a prince, are you?”

The frog … kind of flips out. It gives three loud _ribbits,_ which Patrick has no idea how to interpret, and starts running up and down and across Patrick’s legs.

“Hey, hey, calm down, shit, what the hell is my life right now? Okay, this is fine, we’re both going to calm down, and you’re not secretly a prince because that’s not possible, and I’m not even going to imagine kissing you just to make sure you’re not because that’s ridiculous. Obviously.”

Now the frog just looks… dejected? It stops moving and fixes its strange little frog gaze not on Patrick’s eyes, but somewhere a bit below them.

Patrick rubs his temples again and resolutely turns away from the frog. “Can you just get back in your tank? I need some fucking sleep.”

Of course, the frog decides to jump onto Patrick’s shoulder rather than listen. Patrick brushes it away as gently as possible and blows out his heaviest, most mid-life-crisis-esque sigh yet. “I’m not going to kiss you, frog.”

And there’s that dejected look again, Jesus Christ. and now the frog is back to hopping back and forth across Patrick’s legs in a way that’s not comfortable at _all._

“Okay, okay, fucking fine, whatever, if this’ll make you chill the fuck out,” Patrick finally says, scooping the frog up in his left hand and, feeling as stupid and slightly gross as it’s physically possible to feel, presses his lips to the frog’s head for exactly half a second.

Exactly half a second later, there’s a bright light emitting from Patrick’s hand and there’s a breeze in his room, whipping his hair into his eyes so he can’t see anything but the flecks of light swirling absolutely everywhere.

The wind dies down first. and then the lights wink out, and Patrick brushes the hair out of his eyes to find Pete _fucking_ Wentz standing in front of him. Patrick doesn’t scream, necessarily, but the sound that leaves his mouth is probably not good for his vocal cords regardless.

“You’re - you - frog? and I - fuck, you’re missing? and Ashlee - you - frog?” Patrick finally manages to stammer.

Pete laughs, the sound rough with emotion and residually frog-like, and then he’s stepping forward and kissing Patrick and well, that’s all that really matters, isn’t it?  
*  
Happily ever after is a pretty presumptuous phrase, because it implies that the following events will be filled only with happiness. Of course, that is never quite the case, but sometimes, once upon a time, people can get quite close.

Once upon a time, there was a man on a couch and a man in a bed, but now there are just two men in one room, two men who are tired and who have so many questions but have so much love.

Once upon a time, there was a man who made a promise to never leave another alone, and now there is a promise made true.

Once upon a time, closed windows slid open and something slipped inside and the universe tried something new, and now the universe smiles because it has succeeded.

And they all live happily ever after.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks so much for reading! feedback is always appreciated!


End file.
